


An Explosion Comes In Time

by paperclipbitch



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Community: come_at_once, F/M, Ugh, i just love them so so so so much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-10 07:13:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1156652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperclipbitch/pseuds/paperclipbitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I think enough’s been exposed for one night,” Irene agrees, her attention back on Holmes’ naked state. He’d be more flattered if her expression weren’t so consistently amused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Explosion Comes In Time

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [come_at_once porn challenge on LJ, for flawedamythyst's prompt: _indecent exposure_. Title from _Hermit the Frog_ by Marina  & the Diamonds.]()

“This is why nobody invites you to their parties,” Irene says, half-empty champagne glass in a nonchalant hold although she’s not been drinking tonight, eyes glittering and mouth twisted in her favourite smile, although she saves that one just for him nonetheless.

“I wouldn’t want to attend their pedestrian parties anyway,” Holmes responds, with the best disdaining sniff he can summon up.

He’d carry it off better if it weren’t infernally cold in here, of course.

“That smacks a little of sour grapes,” Irene tells him, walking over in a swish of petticoats and silk to put her glass on the nearest windowsill, and peer out into the gardens below.

Holmes isn’t entirely surprised to see her, because they’ve known each other enough years for familiarity to be largely unfeigned, and while his sources said that Miss Adler wasn’t arriving back in England for another week, part of him is certain that she _ensured_ that would be the information he received. They take it in turns to be a few steps ahead of each other, though in this particular incidence it’s possible that Irene will take the lead simply because although she’s not supposed to be at this party either, she has at least managed to keep her clothes on.

“And you, of course, have one of those delightful gilt-edged invitations in your reticule,” Holmes responds easily.

Irene slants him a glance over her shoulder, sharp and knowing and impatient all in one; not quite his favourite of her frustrated expressions, but certainly a magnificent one.

“Trawling for a new husband or avoiding an old one?” he asks, coming to join her at the window. Despite the chill in the air, there are people in the gardens below, little lanterns shining below like fireflies, glinting off the jewel-coloured dresses that are all considerably less elegant and elaborate than Irene’s. Of course.

“Don’t be crass,” Irene admonishes idly, before flicking him a look beneath her dark lashes. “Shouldn’t you already know?”

“Even I cannot keep track of your extensive romantic oeuvre,” Holmes replies, which is only a lie if he allows it to be.

“As opposed to your tragically simple one, I suppose,” Irene says, shifting back from the glass to consider him. 

It’s nothing she hasn’t seen before, naturally, though some of the circumstances under which Irene’s amused gaze have flickered over his naked state have been less than comfortable. Holmes has no great shame about being found unclothed in a dull dignitary’s spare ballroom during a party he shouldn’t have been attending in the first place: he is largely relieved that none of this is actually Irene’s doing, for once. She is always so _smug_ about it afterwards.

“I see Watson needs to keep a tighter rein on you,” Irene says at last. “I can just imagine the headlines about you wandering London naked; with any luck they’ll bring a photographer too.” Her smirk is cut short by the sudden thought: “where _is_ Watson? I’m sure I would have noticed him accidentally proposing to every woman of marriageable age in the room.”

Holmes could defend him, of course, but then perpetual monogamous adoration is one of Watson’s less expensive vices, and there’s little point in pretending otherwise about it, particularly to Irene Adler. Her existence is formed almost entirely of plausible half-truths, carefully-chosen untruths, and bald lies that almost anyone would blush to utter. It not only makes her a tangle of strings that one can really only hold onto a single part of at any given time, but also frustratingly good at picking out others’ falsehoods.

The truth is Sherlock Holmes’ shield, of course, not to mention his livelihood, and the truth is the sharpest and worst of all weapons, but a well-placed lie will do the job just as well.

“He’s otherwise occupied,” Holmes says, sharp, and Irene arches an eloquent eyebrow.

“I see,” she murmurs, before her expression brightens and she adds: “well, that certainly explains why you’ve gotten yourself into this situation. You need a better governess, Sherlock.”

“Are you applying for the situation?” he shifts against the velvet cushions of the window seat, opens his eyes large and innocent. 

“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve put you over my knees,” Irene muses, eyes flicking over him again. “I fail to understand how exposing Lord Wilford’s claim that the family diamonds have been stolen is fraudulent has led to your current state of undress,” she adds.

“A series of implausible and inconvenient circumstances,” Holmes tells her; he might recount the full story to Watson over tea and brandy later, perhaps, Watson’s mouth twitching between delighted amusement and disapproval, hoping that his moustache will conceal the former and promote only the latter. He doesn’t remark on Irene seeing through the family’s current deception; she’s probably more immediately aware of the location of the hidden diamonds than he is right now. “The manservant who has taken the blame and the censure of the British press is currently buried under the rose bower,” he adds.

Irene’s mouth thins; she casts an indifferent glance out of the window, to where courting couples and young lovers are wandering through the softly-lit gardens. “That dampens the romance somewhat,” she observes.

“I’ll expose them tomorrow,” Holmes says, “they may as well enjoy this ridiculous party.”

“I think enough’s been exposed for one night,” Irene agrees, her attention back on Holmes’ naked state. He’d be more flattered if her expression weren’t so consistently amused. “It doesn’t explain why you haven’t found something else to wear,” she adds. “There are easily a dozen bedrooms upstairs.”

Holmes waves a vague hand. “I don’t know where you think I keep my lockpicks, Irene.”

She tips her head, conceding the point, but remarks: “you could at the very least have torn down some of the drapes, not just waited in these ridiculous people’s second-best ballroom for discovery. That implies something deliberate, Sherlock.”

Irene is often flirtatious – it is her stock in trade, after all – but she isn’t flirtatious now, regardless of the twist at the corner of her mouth.

“I’m not _Mycroft_ ,” Sherlock protests, because his brother tends to view clothes as something optional and utterly unnecessary for the higher thought processes. Holmes is a little less cerebral, and rather more fond of dressing gowns.

“Well, the view’s certainly better,” Irene accedes, and Holmes is about to ask when exactly Irene saw Mycroft naked and if he’s going to have to be put out about the whole business when she throws him one of those delightful smirks and rearranges her bustle enough to be able to sit beside him on the window seat. She’s wearing far more than he is, of course, but Sherlock can see the places in the dress where a few well-placed tugs could put her in a similar position to him.

“You’re forgetting my corset,” Irene says aloud, fingers tilting his chin back up to eye level. 

“Am I?” Sherlock asks.

“I still have work to do tonight,” she adds, and Holmes has occasionally wondered if sexual congress between ordinary humans involves such negotiations; a peace treaty, with terms laid down as they strip off their weapons and agree to a temporary ceasefire. Watson choked on his tea and laughed too hard to respond the last time Holmes asked him this question; another part of normal people that he clearly cannot understand and has no real interest in pursuing the investigation.

“I will need a hansom,” he informs her.

“I’m not lending you my cloak,” she says. “It’s from Paris, and it’s new.”

She says it as though it was recently bought, but he can see in the lilt of her mouth that it was tailored for someone else entirely, someone who did not receive their commissioned item or discover its disappearance until it had left the country altogether.

That’s Irene Adler for you.

She hasn’t moved her hand from his face, though she stills for a moment and adds: “if you ruin my hair I will break your fingers” before pressing one of her warm, certain kisses to his mouth. 

Holmes has no interest in permanence and has little idea what Irene’s legion of once-husbands have got out of being married to her – except, of course, for the obvious. And what a glorious obvious it is. Almost frustratingly so.

Irene kisses with determined desire, as though she has finally reached a decision in her mind and you’re lucky enough to be involved in it. Holmes has no doubt that she can play the ingénue, virginal lips pursed and dark curls cascading over trembling uncertain shoulders, has no doubt that she _has_ played that for any number of her men, but she’s only ever brought her confidence, her assertion, her decisiveness, to him. It is almost a relief; he’s uncertain what he would do with an Irene who _didn’t_ shove his back into the cold window glass, teeth caught in his lower lip, smelling of some indefinable expensive perfume that lingers long after she’s gone.

Holmes is careful about how he touches her, certain that she will find some unpleasant way to torment him if he ruins her carefully-chosen clothing, though with a little squirming on both their parts and a loose laugh from Irene he can get a hand into the low neckline of her dress, filling his palm with one of her warm, firm breasts, heartbeat shivering through the flesh. Irene drags teeth into her kiss as he kneads her skin, catching a nipple between two fingers, reflecting briefly that with more time and in a less inconvenient location he could play her as violin, given the opportunity that he will never, ever hand him.

Irene’s nails dig into his thigh and Holmes is aware of his cock; not just of it thickening, nagging desire along his nerve endings, but also of its proximity to Irene’s dress. The one that she will wear back to the party at some point, the one that needs to remain entirely unsoiled or risk her wrath and some kind of tiresome revenge plot that she will hold over his head for months, if not longer.

He detaches his mouth from the long line of her throat, where a scrape of teeth will leave her flushed but otherwise unmarked, and manages to form her name, though perhaps not much else.

“Yes,” she says, fingers sliding in momentary clumsiness against the window, but then she does something with her hips Holmes doesn’t entirely follow – he must learn it for future reference – that lands him on the cool polished wood of the ballroom floor, the smack of his skin oddly quiet in the large space. 

Irene will have to reapply her lipstick and perhaps rearrange the neckline of her dress, but she still looks startlingly well put together, not a curl out of place.

“Take your time, Sherlock,” she adds, somewhere between amusement and an order, and he slides onto his knees on the cool floorboards to navigate his way under the rustle and slide of her skirts until he can feel the warmth of her thighs through her stockings. Women’s clothing is not designed for quick removal and Holmes is briefly distracted by the thought of what could be achieved with a penknife and a willing participant as his hands brush up the thin silk, his head muffled in several layers of thick material, until he can feel her stays and the smudge of her bared skin. One of Irene’s heels digs into his thigh, reminding him that although neither of them were supposed to be at the party and therefore neither of them will be missed, there are probably better places for intimacy than an unlocked ballroom, and there might be times when it’s possible to linger, but now is not one of them.

If Irene wears underwear, it’s never been around him, and Holmes finds the wet heat of her cunt easily enough, trailing stubble-roughened kisses up her thigh, hands pressed to the tops of her stockings for something like leverage. The angle isn’t perfect, and there’s altogether too much _dress_ getting everywhere, but Irene’s legs lock around him anyway as he slides his tongue inside her.

“You’re after that young Bohemian dignitary,” he informs her, shaping the words clumsily against her, to make her grind herself into his face, “because you don’t learn any better and you have far less money than you’d like.”

He’s safe in the knowledge that she cannot hear him, can feel the vibration of his voice and the slide of his mouth, but the meaning is lost. Nonetheless, her knees tighten, and he stops deducing her motives into her cunt in favour of speeding up his tongue, sliding his hands up to cup her buttocks and pull her as hard against him as he can manage. He can’t see anything like this, which is a little frustrating; it’s beautiful to watch Irene fall apart, if only for a few carefully orchestrated moments.

Holmes carefully extracts himself from Irene’s gown when her thighs fall lax, his mouth sweet and sticky, and forces his stiff knees to get him back onto the somewhat disarrayed windowseat. Irene’s cheeks are flushed pink and her eyes are bright, but she rearranges her skirts with shaking hands and Holmes can already picture her returning to the party in a few minutes’ time, apologising easily for her absence with a glittering smile that precludes questioning.

“Irene,” he admonishes her, and her grin spreads.

“Patience, Sherlock,” she tells him, pulling out one of her embroidered handkerchiefs and tossing it to him. He raises enquiring eyebrows, and she shrugs, entirely unrepentant. “I can’t risk this dress,” she says, “it cost someone a lot of money, you know.”

Holmes wipes his face before he wraps a hand around his now angrily aroused cock, aware of Irene’s eyes on him. Her expression is hard to read; somewhere between avid interest and utter indifference, a line that enables her to cover a multitude of sins.

“I might make it up to you next time,” she offers, as he grits his teeth and tries to ignore their unorthodox surroundings and scratch of velvet against his bared buttocks in the hope of reaching a crisis of some kind anyway.

“You won’t,” he informs her tightly, feeling his heartbeat threaten to escape up his throat and the tangled heat of desire clawing its way from his spine.

He climaxes on Irene’s sharp sweet laugh, managing to ruin her handkerchief and a patch of the window sill. She covers her mouth with one hand but she’s giggling uncontrollably now, and Holmes bites his mouth together, resisting the urge to join in.

“You know,” she remarks, standing up and shaking out her skirts, teasing a curl of her hair into a more fetching position, “you couldn’t be certain that I’d be the one to find you in here.”

Holmes looks at her. “Yes,” he says, “I could.”

Her expression softens for a moment. “Of course you could.”

Holmes gives Irene a few minutes before opening the window and setting his jaw for his least favourite of the nineteen different escape plans he concocted earlier. He deliberately leaves the handkerchief behind, just in case; Irene Adler can’t be expected to win _every_ time, after all.


End file.
